Ride the Lightning (3): For Whom the Bell Tolls
by jtm1848
Summary: As everything breaks down, an unlikely friendship emerges in the depths of the Delphic Expanse.


– FOR WHOM THE

BELL TOLLS –

2000 hours_._ _The launch bay may not be the most glamorous part of the ship_, Archer thought to himself, _but at least it's clean._ How that had happened, the captain was unsure; it didn't surprise him that the dust and minor debris had been cleared away, but the bay was bright, well-lit, with the great majority of the battle damage repaired. It was for this, more than any other reason, that he choose to use the launch bay to speak to his crew.

Archer slowly paced along the second-level catwalk, the remnants of his senior staff standing firm behind him. Commander Tucker was there; Lieutenant Reed, standing at attention; and Ensign Sato rounded it out. T'Pol was sedated in sickbay, Phlox understandably refused to leave his patients, and Ensign Mayweather was in temporary command of the bridge.

"We're in bad shape," Archer began, almost cringing at his own understatement. "I can't deny that." 'Bad shape' did not come close to doing the _Enterprise_justice; the once-proud vessel was crippled, abused, looking more fit for the salvage yard than interstellar space. The outer hull was punctured in a dozen places, some larger than a person; the interior structure of bulkheads and duranium support beams were shattered beyond recognition, closing off corridors and creating new ones. Everywhere, circuitry and power conduits were blown, wires dangling out, sending sparks into the dusty air.

"But we're still in one piece," Archer said proudly. "_Enterprise_is a tough ship. She took more than anyone could ask her to and then some." The ship had come through—thus far—with miraculous strength; her designers had never anticipated that the _Enterprise_would be subjected to these events and conditions, but she hung together with a tenacity rivaling that of an Aldebaran bat.

"So have all of you," Archer continued. The strain on his crew was almost beyond recognition; going on ten months into their mission, the survival of Earth riding on their shoulders, fighting against the odds without a solitary chance to unwind the tension; it had gotten to T'Pol, and sooner or later, it would get to the rest of them as well. "I wanted to say thank you. I only wish I could thank the eighteen crewmembers who we've lost."

Archer's eyes roamed over the assembled crew beneath him. They were incomplete; he could tell by a glance that people were missing, people who would never return. Their bodies lay enshrouded in the ship's morgue in the hope that they could be returned to the soil they had given their lives for. "Like you, they understood how important our mission is, and they accepted the risks."

They hung onto his every word as a pillar of strength. "We came into the Expanse not knowing what we'd find, with no one to rely on but ourselves." Archer let his voice rise. "And damnit, we've made it this far already! We're going to succeed, and we're going to accomplish our mission!" A roar of throaty approval reverberated in the bay. "For everyone on Earth who's counting on us, for our eighteen comrades!"

…

_2200 hours. When was the last time I slept?_ Archer shook his head, clearing out the random thoughts, hoping he hadn't missed too much of Trip's report. They were gathered in the captain's ready room. It was hard to resist the urge to nod off; the room was dark, with only the solitary light of a palm beacon hanging from a beam in the ceiling providing illumination.

"We managed to get into sections six and seven on C-deck," Trip was saying soberly. His normal joviality, under assault during the ongoing strain of their mission, and finally given way; the engineer had no reserves left. "We found Taylor and Kamata."

"That accounts for all of the missing," Malcolm observed. He had joined the other two for the impromptu status report, and like his fellow officers, Malcolm's face was drawn long and heavy. "Phlox asked if we can clean some quarters for the wounded."

Archer nodded. "Tell him he can have any rooms he wants, but his medics will have to do the cleaning." The light flickered above them, but Archer was too weary to glare. Damage control and repair was the first officer's domain, and parceling out T'Pol's duties was only adding to the general wear on the crew. _Except for Travis. He seems to be enjoying himself. _"What's our status on weapons?"

"The forward phase cannons are online," Malcolm reported, "and the aft torpedo launcher as well, but I can't say for how long. One good shot could blow the power relays. Hull plating is up to eighty percent." He glanced at Trip for agreement. "I don't see how we're going to get it any higher."

"Too many EPS grids were destroyed," Trip confirmed. "We replaced as many as we could with our spare stock, but there simply isn't enough to handle a normal flow of power. The reactor's providing enough energy, we just don't have a way to get it where it needs to go."

Archer sighed. "That'll have to do."

"We could wait here," Trip suggested. "Hang back until we've had a chance to make more repairs."

"I thought you were the one eager to push on," Archer said, giving a thin smile.

"Things change."

"We don't have much a choice," Malcolm countered. "Degra's message was clear: we're to meet him ten hours from now."

"I don't intend to be late," Archer added. "I don't see him waiting around for us." The overhead light went out, plunging the ready room into darkness. Archer squinted his eyes, trying to use the starlight from outside the viewing port to see his officers.

"Maybe that's what he's counting on," Malcolm said thoughtfully, his voice hanging, disemboweled, in the darkness. "Lure us into an ambush before we can repair our wounds."

"Nah," Trip answered, the single word drawing out. "If he wanted to destroy us, he would've done so already. He's had plenty of chance to."

"There's another reason," Archer added, glad for the darkness. It prevented his officers from seeing their captain rubbing his temples in a futile attempt to disperse a headache. "We don't have much choice. If we want to find the weapon and stop it, this is the only option we have left." He paused. "We have a lot of work to do. I suggest we get to it."

Both officers replied with an "aye, sir" and stepped to the door. When it slid open, Archer had to look away; the harsh light from outside poured into his ready room, wrecking his delicate night vision. "Commander!" he called out, blinking furiously.

Trip stopped, and waited for the doors to slid shut. "Yes, sir?" he said finally, not daring to move. He knew that there was jagged debris somewhere.

"Crewmember Taylor was one of yours, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir," Trip answered. "She was an EPS control specialist. A damn good one, too." The overhead light flickered back on, causing them both to wince.

"I'd like you to write the letter to her family," Archer said finally, raising a hand to shield his eyes.

Trip pursed his brow. "She worked on Rostov's team," he said hesitantly. "I can ask him."

"I asked you," Archer replied harshly.

"I'm barely holding the ship together," Trip answered doubtfully. "I don't have time to sit down and write a letter.

The captain gave his best raised eyebrow, silently wondering about the commander's motivations. "It doesn't have to be long," Archer chose to say. "Her family deserves to know what happened to her."

Trip nodded slowly. "Understood."

…

**Feb. 5, 2154**

"We're approaching the coordinates, Captain," Travis reported from the helm. "Right on schedule."

Gingerly, Archer stood up from his command chair. Sometime in the night, he had pulled a muscle in his left leg, but the pain was more tolerable than sitting inactively. "Anything, Malcolm?"

"No, sir," Reed said, checking his sensor readings twice. "No sign of a ship out there."

Archer frowned. "Hoshi? Anything on the comm?"

Hoshi only shook her head once; her hair had come loose, falling forward across her face. "I'm scanning all frequencies. Nothing so far."

"Maybe they're running late?" Travis asked doubtfully. Even then, there should be some sign on long-range sensors. _Had _they been set up?

Archer felt the deck suddenly skew underneath him as the _Enterprise_shuddered violently. His sore leg collapsed underneath him, and he landed on the deck plating, feeling an instant bruise swelling up on his hip. "What the hell was that?" he shouted, holding back some coarser language. "Go to tactical alert!"

In T'Pol's absence, Ensign Rahimi had been moved to the science station, and she responded only a moment slower than the Vulcan would. "It's a spatial anomaly!" she called out. "We've entered a dense field of…something!"

"Tucker to the bridge!" Trip's voice was accompanied by the distinct sound of electromagnetic crackle. "This is not the best time for this!"

Archer winced as he pulled himself off the deck, carefully testing his left leg. "Stand by Trip!" he shouted back.

The ship shuddered again. "Reports of injuries on B-deck!" Reed called out. The sound of a surge behind him sent Malcolm to the deck plating moments before a panel blew out over his chair.

"No one's out there, sir!" Rahimi reported, closing off one possibility: they were not under attack.

The shuddering stopped, leaving the bridge still. Archer involuntarily coughed on a cloud of smoke. "Get us out of here," he ordered finally, clearing his throat.

"Aye, sir," Travis answered.

"Captain! Wait a second! I'm getting a reading!" Archer spun backwards to look at Rahimi. "There's a Xindi vessel coming out of the anomaly!"

"We're receiving a transmission," Hoshi reported moments later. "It's Degra. Text only—he's telling us to follow him back into the anomaly."

"Follow him in, Travis," Archer ordered, leaning on the helm console for support.

"Aye, sir," Travis acknowledged. "We're approaching—correction, we're through the event horizon." The smoothness of the transition was remarkable.

No more than a minute later, Degra's ship led the _Enterprise_out of the anomaly, pulling to a stop near one of the massive Spheres that was wrecking havoc on the Expanse. Before Archer could ponder _why here_, the comm beeped.

"They're hailing us," Hoshi notified the captain. Archer nodded his command, and Degra's face appeared on the viewscreen.

"I see you found my message," the primate scientist said curtly. "We have a great deal to discuss and I don't have much time. Come aboard my ship at once." The Xindi's face disappeared as he closed the comm channel.

"Well," Archer replied to the blank screen, "not quite the welcome I was expecting, but I suppose it could've been a lot worse."

…

"I apologize for the—forceful way that we returned you," Degra said, taking a seat behind his desk. "But the aquatics would only transport you if you were unconscious. They weren't very comfortable having you on board their ship."

"If we'd left you with the reptilians, they would have killed you," Jannar added, standing off to one side. "Degra talked the aquatics into returning you to your ship, but he had to make certain promises."

Archer nodded, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. "Then you also called off the attack on _Enterprise_?" he asked, addressing Degra.

Degra's head tilted. "My superior, Councilor Depac, had more to do with that, but in essence, yes. The reptilians weren't very pleased about that—I can't imagine their reaction when they realize that we let you escape."

_Maybe I got through to them after all,_ Archer pondered to himself. _Maybe we can forge some common ground. _"You've taken a big risk," he observed. "The reptilians don't seem like the type to let these things go."

Degra stood up behind his desk. "If you're telling the truth, the future of my people is at stake," he replied fiercely.

"We're far from convinced, Captain, but the danger is too great to ignore." Jannar continued the thought. "We must make certain."

Archer gritted his teeth. "Everything I've told you is true," he retorted.

"Forgive me," Jannar answered. "But the Council will need more than your word. We need proof: cold, hard, observable proof."

Archer bit back is first response. "What sort of proof are you looking for?" he asked, looking back and forth between the two Xindi.

"Perhaps you can demonstrate your ability to time travel?" Jannar suggested with a noticeable hint of skepticism.

"That might be a bit difficult," Archer replied, snorting, "but if you come aboard my ship I can give you all the proof you want."

Jannar and Degra exchanged pointed looks. "Very well," Jannar answered. "But if we're not convinced by your _proof_—"

"There's no need to make threats," Archer shot back. "But there's something _I _need to know first."

Jannar's forehead seemed to wrinkle. "Such as?"

"I know your weapon is completed. When is the attack set for?"

Jannar broke into a barking laugh. "Do you really think we'd tell you that, Captain?"

"The precise date hasn't been determined yet," Degra answered, shooting a glare at Jannar.

"You must have some idea," Archer countered forcefully. "Is it a matter of weeks? Days?"

"That's up to the Council," Jannar replied.

"You're _on _the Council." Archer's temper was peaking. "You must have some idea. Look," he said, focusing on Degra, "I'm trying to help you, but I need to know my world isn't being destroyed while I'm doing it!"

Degra weighed his responses. "The attack won't be launched for at least several days," he said finally. "Councilor Jannar and I will both know well in advance. You may not have the best impression of me, Captain," he went on, his head shaking bitterly. Degra was the designer of the weapon, after all. "But I do believe in a sense of fairness. I won't let the attack be launched until you've had a chance to make your case."

"Show us your proof," Jannar said through hairy lips, "and if we believe it, we'll do what we can to stop the attack completely."

…

With nearly a hundred surviving crew members and one nearly-demolished mess hall, meal times had to come in shifts with the repair teams rotating in and out on tight, fifteen-minute schedules. Phlox had mandated that every person receive a break and a meal, but the demands of a ship falling apart around them kept those breaks forcibly short, and the promise of eating ration packs meant that there was no joy in the mess hall.

Situated against the outer hull of the _Enterprise_, the mess hall had taken more than its share of damage in the battle at Azati, and it took the personal involvement of the captain to get emergency repair work done. Despite the lack of critical systems, Archer had pointed out that the mess hall was one of the most-used sections of the ship, and if nothing else, it needed to be fixed up for the sake of morale. A repair team, sandwiching the room between two other projects, and done a cursory job, removing what debris they could, and spot-welding tables and chairs together. Nonetheless, the room still resembled a metal jungle, with charred and twisted support beams and conduit tubing hanging from the ceiling and protruding through the walls.

Along one side of the mess hall—the clearest side—the medical staff had set up a makeshift banquet line, setting the ration packs out so as to give the crew some choice for their dinner. At the end of the line, a medic worked two ten-liter thermoses, and duly checked to make sure that no crewmember was shirking on their duty to eat.

Trip sat at a table, spending more time with his engineering padd than his Salisbury steak, when a figure loomed beside him. He glanced up, barely recognizing Hoshi beneath the dirt and falling hair. "Mind if I join you, Commander?" she asked with a smile.

"Have a seat," he said, setting down the padd. He felt some of the tension in his shoulders release; perhaps talking to someone—about something besides warp reactors—would do him some good.

Hoshi picked a chair up from the deck, balancing it on temporary tripod legs. "You look like you could use a little company."

"Just got my mind stuck on some stuff," Trip answered. "What'd you get?"

"The best I could find was pepperoni pizza," Hoshi replied, wrinkling her nose. She wasn't a strict vegetarian, but she tried to keep her diet clean of red meat.

"Don't worry." Trip gave a grin. "I'll eat the pepperoni for you."

Hoshi gestured to Trip's padd. "Damage reports?" she asked warily.

"No." Tucker sighed. "It's a letter. The captain wants me to write a letter to Crewman Taylor's family."

"I'm sure they'll appreciate it," Hoshi replied, picking off the round, offending slices of meat and flicking them onto Trip's fake steak. "I know my parents would."

"They're daughter's dead, Hoshi," Trip replied morosely. He ran a hand over his unshaven chin. "Do you really think they'll care what I have to say?"

Hoshi looked at him closely. "When was the last time you slept, Commander?"

Trip, noticing the scraggly growth on his face, pulled his hand away. "I don't know. Not since we—obtained our warp coil." His eyelids suddenly felt heavy.

"That was two days ago, sir," Hoshi answered carefully.

"All right then, two days."

"You should go to your quarters. Get some sleep."

"Believe me, I'd love to," Trip answered. "But I don't have time. If I don't keep busy—" he yawned uncontrollably—"the ship will fall apart."

Hoshi gave him a wide grin. "I could order you."

It got a chuckle from Trip. "I'd like to see you try, _Ensign,_" he retorted, before growing serious again. "But we're full of holes, the only thing keeping us flying is a stolen warp coil, and now I've got to write this damned letter." The _Enterprise_shook with a powerful jolt. "What the hell?" Trip demanded, jumping up from his seat.

By the time Trip was out the doorway, the corridor outside was filled with thick smoke, eerily lit by a billowing fire erupting from the bulkhead. Coughing to clear his system, he waved his arms in front of him, futilely trying to clear a path of visibility. If his senses were correct—there, a couple meters down the left-hand side, was the unmistakable glow of a plasma fire

"Tucker to engineering," he called out, slapping the nearest comm panel. "Shut down the auxiliary coolant line between sections twelve and fourteen on E-deck!" A muffled "_aye, sir_" came back, but Trip's attention had already shifted away.

As he entered the blast range of the explosion, the smoke cleared away, letting Tucker see the twisted orgy of destruction. The bulkhead had blown completely free; in the plasma-fueled light of the fire, he could see shards of the plasticine littering the deck plating. Behind it, the coolant conduit bore a ten-centimeter-wide rupture. Billowing from it was the unmistakable greenish-yellow glow of burning plasma.

From the other side of the blast radius, another crewman entered the scene, carrying a chemical fire extinguisher. Aiming the nozzle at the conduit, he squeezed it hard, unleashing a punishing stream of suppressors. Trip knew it would take several minutes to get the fire under control, but between cutting the fuel and dowsing it with suppressants, the outcome was approaching certainty.

Only now did Trip's attention shift to the body lying on the floor. Within a moment, he recognized it as Crewman Price; judging by the scorch patterns on her uniform, she had been standing next to the conduit when it ruptured, the heat and sound waves simultaneously knocking her to the ground. Dropping to his knees, Trip felt for a pulse, and was relieved to find it beating, albeit weakly.

Tucker was back on his feet, trotting through the black smoke, and hit the comm panel without even realizing he had moved. "Tucker to sickbay!" he cried out. "Medical emergency on E-deck, section 12!"

Phlox's voice came back a second later. "On my way, Commander!"

"Tucker to engineering!" he called out again. "Status report!" His voice was instantly sore as he started to choke on the thick smoke working its way down the corridor.

"MacFarlane here!" The response came from engineering. "We got the coolant line blocked off! Reactor pressure is holding steady!" The coolant systems were perhaps the most important measure in keeping the warp reactor from accelerating into meltdown and explosion; while shutting off a single line was unlikely to send the warp core into critical, it was nonetheless a possibility.

Trip let himself fall draped against the bulkhead, the adrenaline of the previous—five seconds?—draining from him at record pace. He took several shallow breaths, trying to replenish his oxygen supply without inhaling the damaging smoke. In his mind, at least, it was only his own quick thinking and quick action that had saved the ship from further disaster. "Good thing I wasn't taking a nap," he muttered to himself.

Outside the vessel, on the fore ventral starboard section of the hull, a small wedge had developed between two sheets of tritanium. Through the wedge came a stream of gases, glittering as they froze in the cold vacuum. The _Enterprise_was leaking atmosphere.

…

T'Pol came to in bits and pieces, the strangeness of it fueling the sense of dissonance in her mind. She recognized that she had been unconscious due to some injury; and when Vulcans emerged from a healing trance, it was not in this gradual, piecemeal fashion typical of other species. Vulcans were out one moment and completely back the next. She frowned mentally, itself a dissonant experience; Vulcans did not frown either. What was going on?

Her semi-conscious mind labored through its logic protocols, trying to apply a cool analysis to her situation. She had been injured; her method of waking up was inconsistent with recovering from a healing trance. Thus, the most siplest answer was that she had not _been _in a healing trance. But what type of injury would prevent her from attaining the state of mind?

Her eyes opened before her thoughts could provide an answer, and her body shot tense with a joke. A face loomed over her, smiling malevolently. It was not Vulcan. _It was not Vulcan. _Had she been abducted? Captured in battle?

"Good afternoon, T'Pol," the alien said, and T'Pol felt her body relax. (_Why did it relax? That indicates an autonomic response to external stimuli—my mind should be in control of that!_) She recognized the alien hovering above, and the smile was warm, not malevolent. It was Phlox, a Denobulan physician that she knew from—where?

"How are you feeling?" Phlox asked her, discreetly waving a hand scanner over her thinned body. "Your friends have been concerned about you," the doctor went on, clucking his tongue in his best approximation of humans.

Huge chunks returned to T'Pol like thunder: she was serving aboard a human vessel. The _Enterprise_. Phlox was the ship's doctor. She was in sickbay because—

"My head hurts," she replied, only partially answering the doctor's question. Her entire body hurt; she felt like she had been on the receiving end of a pile driver, and she didn't even know what that meant. Her head hurt both from the physical pain and from the mental somersaults: why was she so unable to control the pain?

Phlox sat down beside her and took the Vulcan's hand. It was illogical, she knew, but the physical touch brought with it a sense of—comfort, a sense of calm. "You were brought in with a neurological shock," Phlox told her softly. "It took us a while to patch your brain back together, and we had to chase down a number of symptomatic systems failures. You've been sedated for the last couple days while your body recovers."

T'Pol's tongue felt thick. "Did the—did the sedation keep me from a healing trance?" she stuttered out.

"No," Phlox answered. "Your neurological system has suffered a lot of damage. It was unable to form the protective trance. I'd hazard a guess that you're struggling to reassert your mental control?" He was answered with a nod. "It's not just the exhaustion, T'Pol."

T'Pol groaned aloud as it all came crashing back: the events on the _Selaya_, the unrelenting pressure of the emotions around her, the blessed serenity offered by the trellium compounds. "I—I…" she gasped out, unable to form the words. She felt mortified—she _felt?_ Just how much damage had she done?

"It's okay, T'Pol," Phlox spoke reassuringly, patting her hand. "I know about the trellium, and I don't want you worrying about it. You're in good hands; my staff knows what they're doing, and nothing more is going to happen to you. Let us worry about it; you just need to get some rest."

T'Pol nodded and slipped back into quiet slumber.

…

Commander Tucker couldn't get comfortable, no matter what he tried. He sat down on a broken chair; he lay across his bunk; he stood straight and tall; he even tried elevating his feet above his head, but nothing felt right. He rubbed his temples, realizing that he was simply trying to avoid his duty.

"Computer, begin recording." Hearing the _click_, Trip took a deep breath. "Dear Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. I regret to inform you that your daughter was killed in the line of duty." He came to a stop, unable to find the right words.

"She was a fine engineer," he started. "She died performing her duties—oh, hell, computer, stop recording. Delete all of that."

Trip massaged his temples again, and tried sitting on the edge of his bunk. "Computer, start again.

"Dear Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. As Jane's commanding officer, it's with the deepest regret that I inform you of her death…She was a diligent engineer, very hard-working, and…"

"Engineering to Commander Tucker."

"Tucker here," he replied, grateful for the interruption.

"We're having problems with a plasma injector, sir."

"I'm on my way!" Trip shouted gladly on his way out, barely remembering to say "stop recording!" over his shoulder.

…

"I apologize for the condition of the ship," Archer said formally as he escorted Degra and Jannar into the _Enterprise_'s morgue. "But we had a little encounter with some hostile aliens."

Jannar looked around at the battlefield wreckage and chuckled. "To tell you the truth, Captain, I think you surprised the reptilians with your vessel's resilience. They're not used to anyone fighting back." His face wrinkled up, presumably with annoyance. "At least, any warm-bloods. They tend to feel that cold-bloods have a natural superiority in battle."

"Well, we have one thing going for us that they lack," Archer responded after a moment's thought. "Iron persistence. We just don't give up."

This comment got a laugh from Degra. "You humans sure don't give up," he said. "Even when you're outmanned, outgunned, and completely outclassed."

"Those are just details," Archer answered half-seriously. "A fraternity brother of mine once said that 'Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.' I'm not giving up; I'm going to prove to the two of you that humans are your friends, not your enemies."

"About that, Captain," Jannar said as they entered the morgue. "How do you intend to do that?"

"Let's start with this." Archer hit the controls to open a drawer, and it slid out with a hiss, releasing cryogenically-modified atmosphere. On the cold metallic slab was the body of a Xindi reptilian.

"Damron," Degra blurted out, stiffening immediately. "Jannar, that's Damron."

"A friend of yours?" Archer asked curiously.

"A colleague," Jannar replied. "Of sorts. He went missing several months ago. How did he come to be on board your ship?" he asked skeptically.

"No, we didn't abduct him," Archer answered the implied question. "He's one of the reptilians we found on Earth, in the past. Developing a bioweapon."

"His specialty _was _biowarfare," Degra noted. "He disappeared almost immediately after the Council ruled out using a bioweapon. His disappearance raised all sorts of questions."

"Hopefully this provides some answers," Archer bit back the sardonic tone a moment to late, but the two Xindi seemed to have missed it. He opened two neighboring drawers.

"That's Kurgat," Jannar said, identifying the first body. "He was a high-level bodyguard for the reptilians. The other I don't recognize."

"I don't know his name," Degra noted, "but I believe he was a scientist working with Damron."

"This—" Jannar gestured with a hairy hand, indicating the _dead _bodies, "This is the result of your finding them?" _You killed them? Before we could ask them any questions?_

"We didn't have much choice," Archer answered softly. "They had finished their bioweapon, and were about to release it. The weapon would've decimated the population. We had to stop them, and they weren't exactly ready to listen to reason."

Jannar nodded, although the meaning was unclear. "The reptilians felt a toxin would be more effective against your species," he mentioned. "Human carriers would do the work of tracking down anyone who was off-world, and we would be left with a perfectly-habitable planet. They quite enjoyed the irony of that."

"The reptilians never did satisfactorily answer the questions about the disappearance of Damron and his team," Degra added. "There were those of us who thought they were hiding a secret bioweapon program." He got a pointed glare from Jannar: _be more careful about revealing our disunity to this human!_

"Apparently he decided to go ahead without your Council's approval." Archer had caught the opening from Degra, and leapt to use it. "By traveling back in time, not only could they find an Earth less able to detect and stop them, but they were also able to evade your oversight."

"And fortunately, you were able to stop them," Jannar said, his voice far from convinced. "By magically traveling back through time yourself."

"I already told you," Archer said, glaring at the arboreal. "We had help, just like they did."

"You'll forgive me if your story seems far too perfect," Jannar replied with a note of derision. "It hinges on this ludicrous claim of time travel, but you offer _no _proof of it. For all we know, you captured these three in the present. You promised _proof_, Captain. Where is it?"

…

With the long-range sensors finally functioning, and not a hint of a hostile vessel in the vicinity, the _Enterprise_ crew found itself transferred from normal duty posts into the repair teams fanned out across the vessel. Every available body was assigned to the ad hoc engineering squads, and even the bridge found itself running on a skeleton crew: Ensign Mayweather was handling the double-duty of navigation (which consisted of maintaining orbit of the Sphere) and the limited command functions, while Ensign Sato handled communications (of which there were none) and sensors.

Joining them was the third and final person on the command deck—Lieutenant Reed. He was actually assigned to repair work on the weapons systems. However, Malcolm felt that one of his strengths was his tactical skills—and in particular his ability to predict future problems and pre-empt them. In this case, it was T'Pol's absence and thus-far tight-lipped medical condition that brought a looming sense of danger to Malcolm's mind. T'Pol was, after all, the _Enterprise_'s first officer, and with the captain preoccupied dealing with the Xindi, the majority of bridge command would normally fall to T'Pol. She, obviously, was unable to fulfill that duty.

At the same time, the captain's work with the Xindi was too important to pull him away; Trip, who bore the secondary duty of being third-in-command, was needed for the repair work, and Malcolm, who rarely saw the command chair, was similarly needed to repair the defensive systems. Unless T'Pol recovered quickly—and Phlox's terse reports dashed any hope of that—Malcolm realized that they needed to prepare Travis and Hoshi for bridge command, and do so quickly.

Reed ran the scenario past the captain, who promptly agreed and detached Malcolm to handle the ad hoc training. Travis, at least, had been in command before, albeit in brief, controlled circumstances; but both of the young offices needed a review of the various stations and controls, and Hoshi—well, she needed a shot of confidence.

Malcolm took a moment to force some relaxation onto his body. With a couple breaks, they had been at it for hours, and still had more than half the controls to cover. At this rate, they'd be at it well into the morning hours, but he refused to rush it.

"This panel controls the aft torpedo launcher…"

…

Midway down D-deck were the reinforced storage lockers used for extremely delicate or extremely valuable items. Built on the same principle as a "black box" design, they were rough cubes made of nearly-indestructible material that could survive anything short of a warp core explosion. Captain Archer used them sparingly, due to the enduring belief that the ship would either not be destroyed or would suffer a warp core breach anyway; but this time, it had seemed appropriate.

Shielding the control panel with his body, he tapped in the access code, and was rewarded when the doors slid open, giving him entrance into a small, cupboard-sized room. With Degra and Jannar following him in, the locker was promptly filled to capacity.

The storage cubby held a single object—a medical stasis container. Without a word, Archer flipped open the control panel and input the commands to open the hatchway. Jannar and Degra both looked at the contents, speechless; Degra chewed his lip while Jannar crossed him arms. Archer saw their expressions. _Got them!_ he thought triumphantly.

Archer took out the cylinder. It was as long as his arm, and roughly as wide; it was far heavier than it looked. He handed it to Degra. "They had this with them," he told the primate. Degra lifted the cylinder experimentally. "We destroyed most of the toxin," Archer went on. "But my doctor kept a small amount in this stasis unit of theirs."

"This appears to be Xindi technology," Degra answered, his voice slipping into a guttural growl. He was clearly unhappy with what he was seeing. "I need to have our own engineers confirm it."

"They're more than welcome," Archer replied. "Have them come aboard. They can perform whatever tests they'd like. Have them conduct a chronometric analysis while they're at it—they'll find a chronometric flux."

"So you say," Jannar answered. "But you've said a lot of things, Captain. This," he said, pointing at the cylinder, "only proves that the reptilians disobeyed the Council, which comes as no great surprise."

"I consider it evidence of my good faith and honesty," Archer retorted.

"Perhaps," Jannar conceded. "Or perhaps you're trying to gain our trust so you can ensnare us. What's the term? A confidence game? No, this evidence means little."

"Then what do you need?" Archer asked through clenched teeth.

"The core of your claim is that we've been misled by transdimensional aliens—that the same beings who have helped the Xindi are in reality setting us up for our own destruction." Archer sighed, hoping Jannar recognized the irony: it was exactly what Jannar had just accused Archer of doing. "Where is your evidence of that?"

Archer took the cylinder back, sliding it into the stasis device. "Come with me," he said, leading the way from the storage locker.

…

_Do I have to do everything myself? _ Trip thought wearily, unable to answer the age-old question satisfactorily. It seemed like every time he left something to someone else, they botched it; not a good feeling, especially when the _Enterprise_seemed ready to come apart on its own, but what was he to do?

"There was a micro-fracture in the magnesium jacket," he said angrily, reviewing the diagnostic of the blown coolant relay. "That's why it ruptured!"

"I ran a pressure test," Ensign MacFarlane answered, refusing to back down.

"Tell it to Crewman Price!" Trip snapped. "You can find her lying in sickbay! Test them again, all of them, and do it right this time!"

"Aye, sir," MacFarlane replied, unshaken.

Trip whirled around as another voice broke in, unbidden, from behind. "Commander!" It bore a note of umbrage, and if Trip had been thinking faster, he would have recognized it from the start.

"I'm a little busy, Doc," Trip said in warning. "Whatever it is, it'll have to wait."

"I don't think so, Commander," Phlox said, following Trip down the corridor. "You know my medical authority takes precedence."

"So what's the problem?" Trip asked, refusing to stop. He shot the question over his shoulder.

"I understand you haven't slept since the raid."

Trip snorted. "Hoshi tattling on me now?"

"Perhaps she's worried about you. And I think she has good reason to be."

Tucker ran a hand down his face, smearing the dirt and grime. "Well, I appreciate that, but I'm trying to hold this ship together with spit and baling wire. If I took five minutes, I honestly don't think we'd survive."

Trotting behind, Phlox grabbed Tucker's shoulder, pulling the engineer to a halt. "Has it occurred to you that we'll be far worse off if you collapse from exhaustion?" the doctor demanded. Receiving a baleful glare, he removed his hand. "Or make the wrong call? You're not doing us any favors by working in this condition!"

"Your concern is duly noted, Doc, but I've got to get back to work." Trip turned to leave, but was brought up short once again.

"I don't believe so," Phlox said firmly.

"Come again?" Trip asked, turning back to stare at the doctor. _What can he possibly mean by that? It's not like he's going to order me to bed, not with the ship falling apart!_

"I'm relieving you of duty."

_I stand corrected, _Trip thought sourly. "You can't be serious!"

"You will go to your quarters—immediately—and not return to your post before 0500 tomorrow," Phlox went on, his voice unyielding.

"Six hours? There won't be an _Enterprise_for me to return to!" Trip shouted irately.

Phlox was unmoving. "Please don't make me involve security."

"Doctor, in case you haven't noticed, the ship is barely holding together!"

For a moment, the two men stared intently at each other, neither willing to break. In a battle of the wills, it was an even match; but on medical matters, Phlox's authority was supreme, and Trip recognized that one way or another he would be getting some sleep. _Doesn't mean I'm going to make it easy for him, although. He needs to understand that he's jeopardizing the ship!_

The battle was interrupted by the familiar chime of the intercom. "Archer to Doctor Phlox."

Without removing his eyes from Trip, the doctor hit the nearest comm panel. "Phlox here, Captain."

"I need you in sickbay, Doctor," the captain answered.

"I'll be right there." Phlox closed the comm channel, and returned to Tucker. "Well, Commander?" he asked pointedly.

"I can give you two hours," Trip replied combatively.

"I believe the number was _six_," Phlox responded.

Trip had to choke back his rage. "If I'm gone that long, there won't be a ship here when I get back!"

Phlox refused to wilt under the assault. "Four," he said, his lips clenched over his teeth. "And not a minute less."

Trip recognized that the battle was over. "All right," he said finally, unhappy. "Four hours. And remind me to never buy a used car from you." Trip waited a second, but Phlox didn't leave. "The captain's waiting for you."

"I'm aware of that." The Denobulan's eyes flashed.

"Well, then," Trip muttered, "why don't you walk me to my quarters?" With a smile, Phlox fell into step alongside Tucker.

Outside the _Enterprise, _a pressure buildup beneath the leak caused a small explosion, forcing the leak to grow, releasing more and more atmosphere from the warm confines of the ship into the bleakness.

…

**Feb. 6, 2154**

The impromptu tour of the _Enterprise_, in search of additional evidence to convince Jannar, led a frustrated Captain Archer to sickbay. Cursing silently as he circumnavigated the cots lining the floor, he brought the two Xindi back to Phlox's office, where he pulled up images of the transdimensional being they had found earlier in their mission.

"We found him dead and adrift," Archer said, cueing up the pictures. "Do you recognize his species?"

The alien on the screen was not in the best of shape, his skin calcified and cracked like hardened mudflats. Nonetheless, he was immediately recognizable. "We've met one of them," Jannar admitted cautiously, taking in the images. "Although it didn't look much like this."

"What caused his death?" Degra asked. His eyes were darting around the wounded crew littering sickbay, clearly uncomfortable with the sight of the battle casualties.

"Some kind of cellular degeneration," Archer answered. "It started the moment he was taken off his ship."

"Perhaps your atmosphere was toxic to him," Degra suggested. He was barely able to take his eyes off the injured; a part of him expected a sudden cry of alarm, sirens going off, and the shuddering impact of death.

Phlox snorted. "More than that, I'm afraid," the doctor replied. "Our entire universe was toxic to him. Well, toxic isn't the best word, but it works."

"Perhaps if you explained it, then," Jannar hinted blandly.

Phlox hit the computer controls, pulling up a microscopic enlargement of the alien's cellular structure. The common parts of a living cell—the wall, the nucleus—were visible, but they appeared to be breaking down in a miniature version of what had happened to the alien's external skin.

"His species evolved in a different dimension, with a different set of physical laws," Phlox said. He highlighted a single cell at random, and enlarged it across the monitor. "Living tissue exists in a very delicate balance. When he crossed over into our dimension, and encountered slightly different fundamental forces, that balance was destroyed. His cells started coming apart at a subatomic level."

"And that's what killed him?" Degra asked, more for clarification than anything.

"Exactly," Phlox affirmed. "His simply couldn't exist here."

"That's why his species built the Spheres," Archer added. "To alter the physical laws in our dimension to make it habitable for themselves." Internally, he pleaded with the two Xindi to understand the implications.

"I believe he was a test subject sent here to see if they were succeeding," Phlox continued. "Fortunately for us, they haven't yet."

Jannar eyed the cellular diagrams. "And if they are, you're saying the Expanse will no longer be compatible for us."

"Any of us," Phlox confirmed. "Everything we recognize will disintegrate. Die."

Jannar crossed his arms, and gave Degra a pointed look. While the theory was compelling, the facts were still light.

Archer had one card left to play. "We're destined to form an alliance to stop them," he said softly. "Humans and Xindi, and dozens of other species, working together for our common defense. But if you destroy Earth, that'll never happen." He went for the grand finale. "You'll be condemning your own race to extinction."

Degra's look skirted once again around sickbay. "I'm not a big fan of death, Captain, no matter what your people may think about me," he said, still perturbed by the injured. "I'm a scientist; I've always left the fighting to the reptilians. They're better suited for it."

"For all we know, you falsified these medical records," Jannar interjected, sounding a jarringly different note than his colleague.

Archer's submerged anger welled to the surface. "You know, I'm getting tired of hearing that! If you're so intent on disbelieving everything I say, then why did you come at all?"

"There's no need to yell, Captain," Degra countered calmly. "I'm sure you would recognize the need for skepticism."

"When the fate of both our races hangs in the balance? Frankly, no, I don't!" Archer retorted, taking a step forward.

He nearly ran into Phlox, who had moved silently to block the captain. "Here you go," Phlox said to the Xindi, holding a computer chip towards them. "You can analyze the data yourselves."

"I think it's time for us to return to our ship," Degra added diplomatically. "Can you arrange to have the bioweapon sent over as well?"

"We'd be glad to," Phlox replied, smiling politely. "Crewman Sari, can you escort the distinguished gentlemen to the docking port?"

…

"You need to remember your diplomacy, Captain," Phlox observed dryly as their guests left sickbay.

"I'm tired of damned diplomacy, Phlox!" Archer snapped tiredly. He ran a hand over his face, closing his eyes for a second, and felt a twinge of alarm when his eyes stayed closed. _I could fall asleep right here,_ he decided, his body wavering slightly. _I think I could manage sleeping while standing up._

Phlox's voice softened. "Don't make me relieve you of duty as well, Jonathan."

Archer's eyes snapped back open. "Who else—who—have you relieved of duty?" he asked cautiously, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

"I had to send Commander Tucker to his quarters for rest," Phlox replied. "Jonathan, the crew's starting to reach the breaking point. Commander T'Pol was just the first—and most unusual, I'll admit," he said, frowning. "They've been pushing themselves too hard, for too long. I'm afraid if we don't do something…" he let his voice trail off, dangling the open implication.

"I appreciate your concern, Phlox," Archer answered. "I really do. But right now, I need everyone on duty." The two men had been moving slowly as they talked, as if headed, unbidden, to a select destination; and Archer found himself looking down at the battered, sleeping body of his friend T'Pol. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

"Why don't you ask her yourself?" Phlox smiled. "She's awake."

T'Pol's eyes opened slowly. "I was _trying _to rest, Doctor," she replied with a note of irritation.

"Well, if you aren't a sight for sore eyes." Archer's face split into a wide smile. "How are you feeling, T'Pol?"

She stared up at him, doe-eyed. "I'm going to hit the next person who asks me that," she growled. The dissonance made Archer shake his head before deciding that he had heard her correctly.

"I'm sorry I asked," Archer responded, still smiling. "Well, then: what is your objective analysis of your physical and mental health?"

T'Pol sighed. "My apologies, Captain. I'm not—" her voice broke off momentarily. "I've spent enough time around humans to get used to that question: 'how do you _feel_?' I'm not used to having an answer. It's a little—disconcerting." Her head shook. "It's a little terrifying."

Archer raised a soft eyebrow at Phlox, who answered with a measured shake of his head: _her body is still numbed below the neck._ The captain returned his gaze to T'Pol, offering what he hoped was an undetectably-false note of optimism. "So how soon will I see you back on duty?"

T'Pol's head shuddered again. "I'm not sure I'll ever return to duty."

Archer cringed, as much from the sentiment as from the unconcealed honesty. "What's wrong, T'Pol?"

"I'm—damaged," she squeezed out vehemently. "I can't perform my duties like this!"

Archer took her hand, even though he knew she couldn't feel it. "Don't worry about it, T'Pol," he said reassuringly. "We'll get you back on your feet, and you'll be challenging me for command in no time."

"But—" T'Pol stuttered, and no words came out.

"That's enough for now," Phlox said, intervening gently. "T'Pol, you could use the rest. Captain, if you'd care to walk with me?" T'Pol's eyelids fell shut, and Archer joined the doctor on a slow walk towards the sickbay doors.

"Do you have a prognosis yet, Doctor?" Archer whispered, looking back at the tiny Vulcan.

Phlox sighed. "Not really, Captain. She'll recover, to some extent. But I don't know if she'll ever be back to the way she was. And it's not just the physiological damage—she's wrestling with a lot of guilt."

Archer looked abruptly at the physician. "Guilt? What for?"

Phlox gave him a studied look. "She feels like she failed, Captain. She thinks she let us all down, and didn't live up to our expectations. And now she feels even worse for depriving you of your first officer."

_Christ,_ Archer thought to himself. _How can she blame herself for this? I'm the one who pushed her so far, who leaned on her for so much! This is as much my fault as hers!_ "I guess it's one more thing I'll have to address later," he said aloud, his voice revealing the wear and tear on his conscience.

"Jonathan, when was the last time _you _slept?" Phlox asked, raising an arched eyebrow.

"I don't know," Archer replied, yawning at the thought of sleep.

Phlox bit the inside of his cheek as he weighed his response. "Commander Tucker is due to return to duty at 0300," the physician said finally. "When he returns, Captain, I'm ordering you to bed for a minimum of six hours."

Archer smiled wryly. "I'll argue with you later, when I have the energy," he said. "But at the moment, I have three repair projects to check on. Goodnight, Phlox." Archer turned and left sickbay.

…

Trip's body and mind fought brutally in the moments before he slipped into slumber, his mind fighting desperately to stay awake, but the sheer exhaustion of his body made it a futile battle; within moments of collapsing on his cot, Trip was asleep, but rest did not come easily.

Unbeknownst to him, he kept twisting and turning in the bed, his body shaking as it sought Shangri-La. One moment, he was laying on his back; then his right side, then his left, then he was sprawled horizontally across the mattress, working up a slather of sweat with the physical effort. The environmental controls weren't helping; completely offline in the crew quarters, his room was filled with warm, stale air that hung like a dank curtain. And every effort his body made to seek comfort and relaxation was fought, tooth and nail, by a mind that was desperately trying to quell its inner questions.

"Commander?" Tucker shot upright at the sound before arresting his instincts. He rubbed his face with his palms, giving his heart a chance to slow down; he imagined, but couldn't see, the sweat-and-grime patterns smeared across his skin. Keeping his face covered, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, before he finally dropped his palms and peered into the darkness. "Trouble sleeping, sir?" his guest asked hesitantly.

"Taylor!" Trip said excitedly, jumping to his feet. "I thought you were dead! How did you—your entire section decompressed! Did you find a sealed compartment? No one's seen you since then!" Tucker realized that he was rambling, but was unable to stop the flow of words.

"No, sir," Taylor answered quietly, shaking her head softly. "No such luck."

"Then how—so I'm an idiot." Trip winced at himself. "I'm an idiot, you're dead, and I'm dreaming." He glanced around. His quarters still looked the same, but he knew instinctively that none of it was real. It was just an illusion, harbored in some recess of his mind. Like Taylor.

She didn't offer any argument. "The letter," she said instead. "To my parents. How's it going?"

Tucker grimaced. "I've had other things on my mind—other projects to attend to. No offense, Crewman, but keeping the ship together has been a bigger priority."

"Of course, sir," she answered. "Have you had a chance to start it yet?"

How do you glare at a ghost? "I got started," he admitted. "I got as far as 'I regret to inform you.' Then something always comes up."

"'I regret to inform you'?" Taylor replied lightly. "That's a little dry, sir."

"You're not real," Tucker responded. "I'm pretty certain you don't have to call me 'sir.'"

"But you're off duty right now, aren't you?" Taylor pressed. "Now there's no repair work to interfere with writing it."

"Yeah, but—" Trip ran his hand through his hair miserably, barely aware of the spikes left behind. "It's not that simple."

"So what's the problem?" Taylor asked innocently. "The letter doesn't have to be long. The captain told you that."

Trip's gaze fell to the floor. "You can't think of anything to write?" Taylor asked in mock astonishment.

"I wish it were that simple," Trip whispered.

She looked at him angrily. "I served on the _Enterprise_for three years! You personally pulled me off the _Saratoga_to be on your team! Captain Brody was pretty angry at you!"

Trip chuckled involuntarily. "I'd forgotten about that. I'm still not welcome on board his ship."

"You told me I'd make a fine Chief Engineer someday," Taylor added.

"You will!" Trip took an eager step forward through the shadows. "You…would have." He pulled up short.

"Then tell my parents that," she said softly.

"It's not that," Trip said, frustration overwhelming him again. "I can tell them all about your engineering proficiency—hell, you're one of the best we have! We _had_! But hell, I don't even know how to refer to you!" His voice rose irately. "Your service record already says all of that! What can I add that'll make your parents feel any better?"

"Tell them about _me_," Taylor pressed. "Tell them about our experiences together. Tell them about the practical jokes we played on Rostov, or that one time when I found that glitch in the injector assembly everyone else missed. My service record doesn't say how hard I worked, or how much I enjoyed my job—tell them about that!"

"You—don't—understand!" Trip yelled, grinding his teeth.

"What don't I understand?" she shot back. "You're damned right, I don't understand! Why can't you tell them how much you liked me? Why can't you tell them that a little part of me still lives?"

"_Because you're dead!_"

"Is that why you can't even look at me now?" Taylor refused to let up. "I'll I'm asking it that you remember me! Is that asking so much!?"

"Yes," Trip whispered, his thoughts getting frantic.

"Why!?" she asked again, pressing home. "WHY!?"

With a jolt, Trip shot upright on his bed, and groaned loudly.

…

"These tests only confirm the equipment belonged to the reptilians!" Jannar insisted, waving the data padd in front of Degra. Over the previous hours, the Xindi scientists and engineers had studied Archer's evidence. While they confirmed the bare facts, the analysis—the interpretation—was far from clear.

"Read your own results!" the primate retorted. "There's also evidence of chronometric distortion—this equipment traveled through time! Doesn't that prove Archer's point?" He grabbed the padd from Jannar, waving it back in the arboreal's face.

"One." Jannar flicked up a finger, ignoring the gesturing padd. "It doesn't show _any _evidence that our benefactors are conspiring against us! And two: the readings could have been fabricated! Archer is in a fight to save his people: would you really put it past him to falsify evidence?"

"Archer was right, you know," Degra shot out harshly. "If you're not going to consider their evidence _fairly_, then why are you even bothering to take part in this?"

"Degra, you seem determined to believe whatever he claims!" Jannar replied with a scathing tone. "Someone has to balance you out! Now, yes, I admit Archer's evidence is intriguing, but you seem to have abandoned any hint of objectivity!"

Degra leaned forward across a console. "_I'm _not being objective?" he demanded.

"We barely _know _this human," Jannar responded. "We know our contact from the future; we've known it for a long time. It's helped us repeatedly; it even brought the Council together. I think a record like that deserves a little consideration, especially when compared to someone who has a _very _large self-interest in convincing us otherwise!"

"And you've never wondered if she might have an agenda of her own?"

"I am not a fool, Degra," Jannar retorted, stepping forward in a rare display of physical menace. "I don't believe for a second that our benefactors are doing this purely for our good. But Archer's explanation, without firm evidence, is preposterous! Transdimensional beings? Re-writing the fabric of space? Grand alliances _four hundred _years in the future? I'm not your opponent on this, Degra! But I am saying this: it'll take a lot more than a few chronometric distortions to turn the Council against our friend!"

Degra held back a furious riposte. "Captain Archer is expecting me." He turned to leave the room.

"More evidence, I suppose?" Jannar's words caught Degra in the middle of the doorway.

"He claims to know a great deal more about the Spheres," Degra answered grudgingly. "If he can prove that the Spheres are responsible for the disruptions in the Expanse—"

"He'd still have to prove that our benefactors are responsible for the Spheres," Jannar replied. "Degra," he said hesitantly. "I know you've had doubts about building the weapon. Don't let them cloud your judgment."

Degra shot a fierce glare at the arboreal. "Why shouldn't I have doubts?" he demanded. "The first weapon killed seven million people! And the second one could annihilate their entire race! Don't you want to be certain—to be _absolutely _certain—that we're doing the right thing, _before _we commit genocide?"

…

Trip seethed, his anger fueled by the unholy alliance of sleeplessness and outrage. His bizarre dream—hallucination?—of Crewman Taylor still haunted his thoughts, and he had been unable to go back to sleep afterwards; instead, he had been forced to pace his quarters restlessly until his four hours of downtime were up, with only his thoughts to accompany him. He refused to admit that he was farther away than ever at writing the letter to her parents, but his brain—accustomed to tackling problems, solving them, and moving on—was locked in a repeating loop, replaying the last few moments of his dream.

To make matters worse, when he returned to duty, Captain Archer had allowed Degra—the archcriminal—to return to the _Enterprise, _this time _unescorted. _The captain himself even took off even took off for a few hours' rest, ordering Trip to _assist _Degra with any request the villain might make.

_How about shoving him out of an airlock? _Trip chuckled mirthlessly. _The captain might have fallen for Degra's tricks, but I won't. _With T'Pol still absent from duty, Trip had been left in command, and he exercised his command prerogative to keep a watchful eye—his own—on Degra at all times. With the condition of the _Enterprise_, it was easy to repair task in the alien's vicinity, thus providing Trip with a legitimate reason for his presence, in case the captain demanded an explanation.

Of course, his proximity to Degra also kept his flames burning furiously.

The captain had promised to share their data on the Spheres with Degra, so Lieutenant Reed had brought the "scientist" down to the command center. Of course, most of the systems there were offline; it gave Trip the opportunity to join them, and if it kept their information safe from Degra, well, _that's just too bad._

"We've been working to reconstruct our database," Malcolm was saying to Degra, as he attempted to restore an image to the main display screen. It was a maze of fuzz and distortion, not unlike an old analog television set that had lost its signal.

"The pounding your ships gave us didn't help much," Trip groused from his vantage point, waist-deep inside a wall panel. "But I guess you Xindi don't believe in the concept of 'peaceful contact.'"

"Commander." Malcolm's voice carried a hint of warning. "Can you try resetting the optical subprocessors? That might clear it up." He was rewarded with continued static.

"When we slipped through your detection grid," Trip continued, "we got a look at the weapon you're building. I must admit, it's an impressive piece of engineering." He whistled in mock appreciation. "Hell, it'd take at least—a thousand starships like the _Enterprise_ to blow up an entire planet. But I guess we don't have the same experience with it that you do."

"Commander," Malcolm cut back in sharply. "Try increasing the data resolution." The static cleared, allowing the image of the Sphere network to show on the screen.

His job complete, Trip crawled out from the access panel, jumping to his feet. "You know," he said, "I'd like to see the telemetry from the probe you launched against Earth. I assume you were watching the attack." He started putting his tools back in their case. "Calculating the blast yields."

Degra turned to look at the Commander. "Boy, you must have been pretty damn excited," Trip went on, sauntering closer to the alien. "I mean, that beam cut one helluva swath through Florida." Tucker seized on Degra's blank look. "Or didn't you bother to learn the names of the places you destroyed? One of them was named _Florida._"

"Commander," Malcolm growled, clenching his teeth.

"Did you actually see the cities burning?" Trip was on a roll now, unstoppable, as Degra stared at him silently. "The houses vanishing? The people being vaporized? My kid sister was there, and she sure as hell isn't there anymore!"

"Commander, _stand down!_" Malcolm barked harshly, breaking into Tucker's screed. "_Commander_, how are the repairs coming?"

Trip swallowed and took a step back. "Just need a few more minutes, Lieutenant."

Malcolm nodded firmly, and turned to Degra. "Why don't you wait in the corridor for a few minutes until the repairs are finished?"

When Degra had left, Malcolm tried to begin. "Commander, I—"

"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing, Malcolm?" Trip shot out. "With the captain gone, _I'm _in command, not you!"

Reed stiffened. "Then act like it, Commander!"

"I'm _doing _my job, Lieutenant! Why don't you worry about doing yours?"

"I'm trying to, Commander, but you're not making it any easier!" Malcolm retorted, his anger breaking through. "Why are you so intent on driving away the closest thing we have to an ally?"

"An ally?" Trip replied, disbelievingly. "He's the one who designed their weapons in the first place! How can you be so naïve? How can _everyone _be so naïve?"

"No one's being naïve, Commander," Reed said, allowing the insult to pass without retort—for now. "But we need to make use of every opportunity we can get. Degra is an opportunity—a chance to learn where the second weapon is being hidden, when it'll be launched, and how to destroy it! We _have _to pursue that chance, and if it means we play nice and kiss his ass, then we have to do it! Damnit, the captain is trying to gain Degra's trust!"

"Why isn't _he _trying to gain _our _trust?" Tucker retorted furiously. "It's not like _we're_ the mass murderers!"

Malcolm ground his teeth. "Commander, we have a mission to perform. I suggest you focus on it."

"Well, I guess I know where your heart is," Trip said softly. Turning his back on Malcolm, Tucker grabbed his tool box and stalked out of the command center.

Outside the ship, an explosion rocketed through the hole, ejecting a boiling column of green gas.

…

Unlike the command center, the wall monitor in the situation room was functioning normally, although Trip didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse; it meant he was staring at large, red letters flashing 'system failure' at him unremittingly. _As if I needed one more thing to fall apart, _he growled silently. _I really think the ship is out to get me._

Trip had barely left the command center when the _Enterprise_shook with the force of a new explosion, and went directly to the bridge, where he found Travis already pulling up the data for analysis. "It's gotta be one of the warp plasma conduits," Travis called out, noticing Tucker's arrival. On the list of dangers on board a faster-than-light starship, ruptured plasma conduits ranked second or third: if the superheated plasma didn't react (explosively) with the surrounding materials, it would (in short order) melt clear through the duranium hull. The plasma conduits themselves were made of heat-resistant tritanium, but there were few safeguards beyond that—starship designers figured, with good reason, that if the conduits ruptured, the ship was already a goner.

"It must have ruptured when our diagnostic sensors were offline," Malcolm observed, slipping quietly into the situation room. "They would've noticed the change in pressure otherwise."

"What do we do about it?" Hoshi asked, joining her crewmates in the rear alcove.

"We can't get close enough to seal the hole with the plasma leaking out," Travis observed, pulling up the schematics on-screen. "We have to shut down the main plasma feeds, then give the conduit time to cool off."

"The flow regulators were damaged some time ago," Trip added, pointing to them. "We haven't even been able to get to them; there's too much debris in the way. The manual cut-offs can only be accessed from outside the ship—here and here."

"That's very close to the fire," Malcolm commented, disturbed by the prospect. "It's too dangerous. We'll have to cut through the debris and repair the flow regulators instead."

"Are you crazy, Malcolm?" Trip replied as the ship juddered beneath them. It was a secondary explosion from the plasma flume. "If we don't get control of it fast, the fire will spread to the reactor! Our only choice is to go outside and use the manual cut-offs!"

"With all due respect," Malcolm shot back, "it's too dangerous! Any EV team would be killed before they could shut off the flow!"

"Maybe we should wake the captain, and—" Travis started to say.

"The captain's resting!" Trip shouted. "Doctor's orders. I'm not going to disturb him. And Malcolm, if you're so concerned about the danger, then you and I will be the repair team. That is, if you're up for it."

Malcolm returned the baleful glare. "As you order, _sir._"

…

Phlox let out an all-too-human sigh as he stared at the medical charts lining the computer monitor. Behind him, sickbay was calm—at least, relatively calm. His medics were attending to the constant stream of minor injuries sustained from the falling-apart ship and the ongoing repair efforts. Every ten minutes or so, like clockwork, Phlox would be called over to double-check and verify that a bone splint was applied properly, or that nothing more than anti-burn gel was required for a particular patient, or to sign off on the administration of pharmacological drugs.

But for the most part, they were experiencing a temporary reprieve from the waves of casualties that had struck sickbay over the previous few weeks. The battle at Azati had left them with wounded snaking through the doors and out into the corridor; the raid on the Illyrians had been little kinder. Alertly, Phlox had spent the preceding months training his medical team, and many of them now boosted skills roughly equivalent to that of a highly-experienced emergency-room nurse or a physician's assistant. When crisis struck, it saved more than a few lives and limbs; and when the slew of patients slowed, it freed Phlox to focus on the more challenging cases.

One of which confronted him on the screen. Shipboard rumor claimed that the doctor held a dozen medical degrees; while Phlox refused to confirm or deny it—and was secretly amused by the speculation—it was true that he held specialized accreditation in exo-neurology, one of only a handful of physicians in the Interspecies Medical Exchange to do so; he was fascinated by the delicate workings of biochemistry, its relationship to neuropsychiatry, and particularly relevant to this case, how a biochemical completely innocuous for a member of one species could be utterly debilitating for a member of another.

The neurochemical that had caused T'Pol's neuropathic collapse—referred to, for the sake of everyone's sanity, by its acronym 'NAPA'—was a straight-forward compound known on virtually every warp-capable world. Derived from a more powerful, but highly toxic, drug used in organic chemistry labs, NAPA was one of the so-called 'wonder drugs' for its effective, cross-species treatment of pain and fever with relatively few side effects and low toxicity.

_One person's painkiller is another person's poison, _Phlox reflected morosely, remembering the defining maxim of exobiology. He was moving around bits of light symbolizing the atomic and subatomic components of the organic chemical. Despite the vast biochemical similarities between humanoid species—_I wonder if anyone's ever going to find an explanation for that, _Phlox wondered—neurochemistry was an incredibly complex field, where patterns were specific not just to species, but to individuals within species. And NAPA, an over-the-counter pain reliever, was highly toxic to Vulcans, particularly Vulcans carrying a natural abundance in the 7-HT receptors.

Phlox shuffled the patterns of light, waiting for inspiration to strike. The treatment—the physical treatment—was relatively straightforward. It was just a matter of designing a neuroactive chemical that functioned as a full agonist for the abused receptors, and with time the body would re-establish a natural balance. There was a time when the process took massive pharmacological institutions decades to come up with a rough compound, but advances in neuroscience meant that Phlox could design the counteragent from a single workstation in sickbay. But it still wasn't easy.

"Doctor!" Phlox turned his head at the summons, elated at the promise it contained. Crewman Billy had spent the previous hour or so carefully adjusting T'Pol's medications, bringing her out of the healing rest and neutralizing the synaptic suppressants that kept her body immobile. After several days on her back, Phlox wanted to get T'Pol back on her feet, both to benefit her atrophying muscles and to bolster her unsuppressed moods.

With an eager step, Phlox left his station and crossed over to the central biobed, a wide grin spanning his face. "Commander T'Pol!" he said brightly. He glanced upward to double-check the readings, but quickly returned his gaze to the Vulcan. "How do you feel today? Are you ready to try some walking?"

"I feel…I feel…" T'Pol hesitated, unsure of how to answer the question. It was such a foreign concept to her; it wasn't that she _had _no emotions, but rather, they just weren't relevant to her wellbeing. But she found herself unable to control her feelings; they preyed on her mind, affecting her mood, influencing her thinking, and adding a taxing burden to her overstressed body. "My head still hurts," she finished lamely, looking up at Phlox.

"That's no surprise," the physician answered reassuringly. With Billy aiding him, he helped T'Pol sit up. "Your brain is adjusting to a different chemical balance. Give it a few more days, and the physical pain should go away. Now how are we doing? Light-headed? Dizzy? Nausea?"

"Just irritated," T'Pol muttered, then: "I apologize, Doctor. That was rude and uncalled for."

"Don't think twice about it," Phlox answered, still smiling. "I've heard far worse from my patients." Behind T'Pol's back, the physician and medic exchanged meaningful looks; while Phlox helped keep the frail Vulcan upright, Billy had ran a set of scans to verify blood pressure, and the readings checked out. "Can you swing your legs over the side of the bed for me?"

"Doctor, I…" T'Pol started, feeling lost in her own mind. The thought was remarkably incoherent, particularly for a highly-disciplined Vulcan; it began, then trailed off in the miasma of flotsam clouding her focus. "I can't…sense…anyone."

"Ah," Phlox said, understanding T'Pol's meaning. "Don't worry about it; I gave you a suppressant to help relieve the pressure." While Vulcans weren't true 'telepaths' in the sense that they couldn't read others' thoughts—there had to be a physical connection first—most Vulcans experienced the presence of others as a sort of white noise in their minds. Normally, they had little trouble managing the sensation; but in T'Pol's debilitated condition, the white noise around her was far too strong for her mind to deal with. The good news was that it was relatively easy to fashion a suppressant for her telepathic receptors, thus blocking the inundation of emotional static; the bad news, of course, was that the absence of the white noise was almost as jarring as its presence.

"Yes, I…" T'Pol glanced around sickbay, her head moving in a jerky fashion. She felt—_there's that word again_—like she had…_tunnel vision_, she decided. The familiar forms and images were still around her, but they lacked substance, they lacked a sense of _reality._ As she swung her legs over the side of the biobed, and looked down at the floor, it seemed to obfuscate beneath her; moving closer, then farther away, then spiraling before fading in and out. _The floor is still there_, her base logic told her; _the problem is in my own perception of it. If I focus, if I concentrate, it will steady in my mind, firm up._ The concentration was not there; the more T'Pol tried to steady the image in her mind, the more it wavered, until her logic finally pointed out to her that it was a futile endeavor. She broke her gaze and returned her attention to the Denobulan. He, at least, was standing steady.

"There's no need to rush," Phlox said encouragingly. "Why don't you take a few minutes to catch your balance?"

_Because it shouldn't TAKE a few minutes to catch my balance!_ her mind screamed back, furiously. She was able to stifle the retort this time, and steeling herself, T'Pol swung her legs in one jerky movement. She gasped aloud from the effort, as the world suddenly swam around her, and she choked back the wave of bile rising from the disruption of her inner spatial balance.

"Good, good!" Phlox said, gently grasping her left shoulder; Billy had a firm grip on her other side. The physical contact, besides steadying her body, helped to steady T'Pol's mind; the reality of it helped her mind reckon with the disjointed responses her other senses were providing. She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the stabilizing presence of the two beings, and she focused on it, like a candle in the night; the sensations steadied, the distortions bleeding away as the contact firmed up, and T'Pol could sense her reeling mind start to slow down in stark relief.

_Here we go,_ she thought to herself gingerly, and pushing herself off the biobed, T'Pol let her feet catch her has she dropped the handful of centimeters to the deck. Two pairs of strong hands helped hold her upright, supporting a part of her weight, as her balance swirled again; the deck tilted and careened madly, although intellectually she knew it was her mind that was staggering. She thought that she started to fall backwards, but her crewmates caught her.

"Don't worry," Phlox said, his voice expressing confidence and support. "We have you. You're not going to fall." Nodding—her head jerked around, but it was clearly a nod—T'Pol acknowledged their support, unwilling to trust her voice with it. Tentatively, she raised her right foot, and thinking consciously through the motions, T'Pol brought it forward, planting the sole on the deck in front of her. She shifted her weight forward, her leg holding beneath her, and she brought her left foot along behind her. _There_, she thought with uncomfortable satisfaction. _I did it. I CAN do it. I can still do it._

"Well done!" Phlox said appreciatively, loosening his grip as T'Pol's stance firmed up. She refused to look down at her feet, not trusting herself to suppress the vertigo; but by focusing across sickbay, at a point roughly eyelevel, she found that the room seemed to straighten and hold still around her. With less hesitation, she raised her foot again, and took another step forward.

"MAKE WAY!" The loud bellow roared through sickbay, ripping Phlox's attention back to the open doors. Two crewmembers were trotting down the corridor, carrying another between them; the wounded man was unconscious, but had no visible wounds. In an instant, Phlox's demeanor changed into the emergency physician that he had once trained as.

"Lindquist! Help get T'Pol back to her bed!" he ordered quickly, handing T'Pol's left side over to the supportive grip of the medic. Free of that concern, he was able to concentrate on the new patient. "Bring him in to the imaging chamber! What happened to him?"

"Electromagnetic shock!" one of the crewmembers responded.

"Ready an EM crash cart!" Phlox ordered, and sickbay—with wearying precision—swung into action.

…

From the outside, the _Enterprise_always looked far larger; its hull stretched out in every direction, not ending so much as curving away at the edges. Typically, it was an amazing sight to behold, the majestic starship set against the panoramic view of the endless star fields. But such was not the case today.

For the first time, Trip found that he truly appreciated the damage that their vessel had sustained. The hull of the great ship was scorched with overlapping black streaks, each a meter wide and dozens of meters long. Every step, the hull plating—where it still existed—was dented and beaten; some spots microscopically, and others wide enough and deep enough to hold several people. The small ones were easy to step over; but the larger dents had to be circumnavigated, for fear that the hull plates had been fatally weakened.

And interspersed across the hull were the true signs of the _Enterprise_'s flirtation with death—over a dozen massive hull ruptures in eyesight alone, the edges ripped ragged with carbonized blackness, revealing the ship's duranium superstructure to the prying eyes of space. Trip could see the St. Elmo's fire of emergency forcefields holding in some of the breaches; others remained open, their contents long since evacuated into space, the ship protected by interior bulkheads.

Trip cringed involuntarily as he stared down through one of the hull breaches. If he peered closely, focused his eyes into the dimness, he could just make out a faint light deep below him; he was looking down through the ceiling of someone's quarters. He imagined that, if gravity was in effect, he could have dropped a small tool straight down into the room, and he silently prayed that no one had been in there during the deadly battle at Azati.

The plume of plasma fired upwards scant meters away, and the two officers—involved in the delicate dance of coordinating their movements while refusing to talk—took the long path around a gaping hole. Malcolm's eyes involuntarily followed the superheated ejecta upwards, away from the ship; burning at millions of degrees in any temperature scale, he knew that getting too close would cause him to melt away, before his constituent atoms were further vaporized and spread into deep space. It was hard to imagine that such superheated matter could even exist on this side of Vesuvius.

Trip pointed to an intact hull plate. "Open that panel," he ordered roughly, still not looking at Malcolm. "I'll have to talk you through the cut-off sequence."

"Where are you going to be?" Malcolm asked in response.

Trip pointed across several sections of hull plating. "The other valve's over there. I'll get it while you're working on this one."

Malcolm knelt down, his movements slowed to molasses by the combination of kinetic inertia and the inflexibility of the harsh-conditions EV suits, and slowly pushed each release trigger. The first trigger popped out, releasing one side of the hatch; but the other was stuck, and Malcolm pounded his fist against it futilely.

Meters away, Trip had reached the second access panel, and its triggers released smoothly. Tucker manhandled the hull plate off, and looked inside with satisfaction: the cutoff mechanisms, consisting primarily of an old-fashioned valve handle, were undamaged.

"I need to open the emergency bypass ports first," Trip announced over the intercom. "You can't close your valve until I release the pressure from the secondary lines."

Malcolm, hearing the words, let out a grunt and continued hitting the release trigger. _It's all academic if I can't get this bloody hatch open,_ he thought, miserably.

…

Whether it was the heat from the plasma plume or his own physical exertions, Malcolm felt himself wearying quickly, as though the sweat pouring from him was draining his energy as well. He didn't particularly want to ask for Commander's Tucker help; but he fell back onto his posterior, thoroughly winded, and recognized that it was for the best.

"Commander," Reed called out. "I have a problem."

…

Tucker's head shot up and rotated when he heard Lieutenant Reed's pronouncement. _I knew I should've brought an engineer, _he thought angrily, before chastising himself: _why DIDN'T I bring an engineer? I was in too much of a hurry. Well, we won't be making that mistake again._ "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"The panel won't open," Reed responded promptly. "It looks like the heat's warped the metal."

_Shit. I should've expected that. _"All right, Lieutenant, just…" Tucker weighed the options quickly. "Use your plasma torch. If we completely lose the panel, well, we can live without it. I'll be there in a minute!" Trip reached into the opening beneath him, pulling on the first control lever with all of his zero-g reduced strength, and growled with the effort of physically releasing the emergency bypass interlock. It was slow, grueling work; the bypass had to be strong enough to withstand the force of the plasma, and human strength meant little in comparison.

Reed reached into his tool kit, pulling out a basic plasma torch. Twisting the head to activate the device, he pointed the beam at the hull plate, where it began slicing through the metallic sheeting. "This is going to take a while!" he warned, as he watched the beam progress half-centimeter by half-centimeter. The sweat was pouring down his face, but he had to wince and bear with it; he couldn't reach inside to wipe it off, and the environmental controls were finding themselves overwhelmed by his proximity to the plume.

…

"Careful you don't cut through the bypass relays, Lieutenant!" Tucker shouted, as he felt the bypass interlock release with the satisfying force of backup hydraulics. He reached in to release the next valve.

"Commander!" Travis' alarmed voice cut though on the intercom. "The emergency bypass is open, but it's unstable! It's overloading the manifold pressure—the fire's spreading to the reactor shielding?"

"How much time do we have, Travis?" Tucker shouted back.

"Six minutes!" _Enough time, _Trip thought grimly. _We can shut down the flow entirely, and bled the excess out through the exhaust vents. We won't have warp speed, but we'll still have a ship._

"Understood!" Tucker responded on the comm channel. "I know how to take care of it!"

…

The ship quaked violently, pulling the two officers by their magnetic boots. _A surge in the plasma feed_, Tucker diagnosed quickly, mentally checking to make sure he was still in one piece. "Lieutenant Reed! What's your status?"

Malcolm's voice was weak. "Almost there!" he responded, the effort of speaking evident. Tucker looked over with alarm. Malcolm was still working on the access panel, but his body seemed to be wavering.

"Travis!" Tucker called out. "What's the EV status for Lieutenant Reed?"

Hoshi answered. "The temperature in his suit is over forty-four degrees," she reported. "His suit can't hold up to the plasma fire much longer!"

Tucker promised to himself that he'd swear later. "Reed! Get back to the airlock!"

"I'm almost finished, Commander!" Reed responded faintly, his plasma torch continuing to cut the panel away from the hull's structure.

"That was an _order_, Lieutenant!" Tucker bellowed in response. "Get inside _now_! I can wrap it up!"

"With all due respect, sir," Malcolm answered, "you can go to hell! I'm going to finish my duty!"

Tucker groaned miserably.

Malcolm watched as his plasma torch completed the last couple centimeters, no longer aware of his own connection to the tool. The access panel blew off with the tiny chemical explosions embedded in the release triggers, and the sheeting drifted off in front of him, where it crossed into the plasma plume; a nanosecond later, it was no more.

…

"I'm closing the primary cutoff!" Tucker announced as he tugged on another valve lever. This one moved smoothly for him; _almost too smoothly, but I'll worry about that later._

"Forty-six degrees!" Hoshi announced.

It sent another jolt through Tucker's spine. "Lieutenant!" he shouted out, straightening his legs. Reed was only a few meters away.

"I'm sorry, sir!" Malcolm responded. "You're breaking up!" In fact, it wasn't the comm channel giving him problems; his own auditory senses, and the receptor pathways in his brain, were beginning to short out. Malcolm's sound awareness dropped precipitously, instantly cocooning him in deafening silence, and as he reached out to release the valve, it started waving in front of him; then there were two valves, the four, and _who's hand is that out in front of me?_

"Lieutenant!" Tucker shouted again, trying to hurry across the hull. "Get inside!"

"It's too late for me!" Reed shouted back angrily. "Save yourself—I can shut this thing down!" Focusing with all his concentration, Malcolm pulled on the lever, shifting it into the closed position.

…

"The forward valve is closed," Travis reported. "We're cutting off the plasma flow—now!"

…

"Okay, Malcolm!" Trip shouted, doing his best to run in zero-g. He was barely aware that the plasma plume had stopped. "You did good work, Malcolm! Malcolm?"

Reed was floating above the hull plating, anchored into place by his magnetic boots. His arms drifted aimlessly around him, and as Trip got closer, he saw that Reed's eyes were closed; Malcolm's mouth and nose were not moving.

…

They made it no further than the airlock before Dr. Phlox and—Trip choked suddenly—Captain Archer arrived, trailed by a team of medics.

"We need to get his temperature down!" Phlox called out, running up to Malcolm's side. His deft fingers quickly helped Trip strip the EV suit from Malcolm's body. "I'm still reading a pulse, but there's no respiration! Prepare a serum of—" and with that, the doctor, his medics, and Malcolm Reed were out the door, on their way to sickbay.

Trip hunched forward, letting his hands rest on his knees. He was drenched in sweat, gasping for air, but barely aware of it.

"_What the hell is wrong with you!?"_ Archer shouted, crossing the small room. The captain burned with more anger than Trip had ever seen. "Were you _trying _to kill my tactical officer? Or were you trying to kill my chief engineer? 'Cause that's sure as hell what it looks like! Goddamnit, Trip, I trusted you to handle command! And then you go and pull a stunt like this? _What the hell were you thinking?_"

"Captain, I—" Trip stuttered, trying to explain, but he couldn't find the words.

"Didn't you realize that sending people out there was nearly suicide? We could have gotten to the interior regulators _without _sending any more crew to sickbay! Did you even stop to _think_ before you dragged Malcolm out there?"

"Captain…"

"Save it, _Commander._" Archer's tone cut daggers through Trip. "You're relieved. You're confined to your quarters for a minimum of twelve hours. I'll send Phlox over with a sedative." Archer's voice quieted, but the anger remained sharp. "You're no good to us like this, Commander."

…

Commander Tucker stalked down the ravaged corridor, grumbling to himself as he shoved debris out of his path. Behind him, Major Hayes followed doggedly, charged with the task of escorting Trip to his quarters and keeping him there. Not the easiest task, even in the best of times, but Hayes had his orders—and he would see them through.

When Trip thought things couldn't get worse, Jannar appeared round a corner. "Commander!" the Xindi called out, and Trip looked in the general direction, clenching his fists. "I heard about Lieutenant Reed! I hope he'll be okay."

"What's one more dead human to you?" Trip snarled, making Jannar stop short.

"Commander," Hayes said in warning, but Trip was beyond listening.

"You had no problem killing seven million of us, but seven million and one is more than you can stomach?" Tucker demanded, furiously crossing the short gap between himself and Jannar. The councilor took a step back in alarm.

"That's enough!" Hayes shouted, following behind Trip.

"Talk to me, _Xindi!_" Trip shouted, and he gave the arboreal a shove.

Without hesitation, Hayes grabbed Tucker's shoulder, spinning the engineer around, and landed a fierce fist on Trip's jaw, knocking Tucker to the ground. "I said, that's enough," Hayes growled. "Are you okay, sir?"

"Just—just a little shaken," Jannar answered, catching his breath.

"On behalf of the crew, I'd like to apologize—" Hayes began formally.

Jannar waved him off. "Don't. I'm the one who should be apologizing to your crew."

Between them, Trip rolled on the floor, groaning.

…

**Feb. 7, 2154**

_Those few hours of sleep sure felt good,_ Captain Archer contemplated, rolling his head back and forth. Even with just four hours of rest, his body felt refreshed and relaxed, his mind alert and focused. There was a job ahead, and he felt ready to tackle it. Until he was reminded of how far they still had to go.

"We've determined there are fifty-nine Spheres," the captain said. He had the diagram of the Sphere network pulled up on the main screen in the command center. The points of light representing the alien devices formed an area roughly the size and shape of the distorted space known as the Expanse, and between each point, thousands of lines showed the worst effects of the subquantum changes.

"Fifty-nine?" Degra responded, glancing back at Archer. "It's seventy-eight. At our last count, at least. We keep finding new ones."

"Seventy-eight?" Archer stifled an internal groan.

"We've had more time to study them than you," Degra acknowledged semi-apologetically. "You've been accumulating the data much quicker than we ever have. I'm sure you'll pass us soon."

"It would go even quicker if we shared our data," Archer suggested gamely. He knew it was unlikely, but he had to make the effort. He drew a deep breath. "I apologize for Mr. Tucker," the captain said. "For the things he said to you earlier. I also understand that he had a run-in with Councilor Jannar earlier."

Degra actually smiled in response. "Don't worry about it, Captain," the primate said. "I can't say that I really blame him." He hesitated momentarily. "Killing is a lot easier when you don't see the faces of your victims. Did you know, Captain, I actually forced myself to watch the visual sensors as the attack happened? I felt it was a sort of penance for my acts. I thought the attack was necessary to save my people, but I didn't relish the prospect of killing yours."

"I know," Archer replied softly. "Believe it or not, we've had this conversation before."

"Ah, that's right," Degra responded. "Our 'escape' from prison together." Months earlier, the _Enterprise_had captured Degra and put him in a mock-up of a shuttle with Archer, trying to convince the scientist that years had passed, the reptilians had turned on the primates, and that he could share information on the weapons with Archer. "The reptilians are correct about one thing, Captain," Degra observed. "You have an impressive facility for deception."

Archer winced. "It probably wasn't the best way to earn your trust."

"Probably not," Degra retorted. "I have to wonder what would have happened if you had been honest with me from the start. Perhaps we could have saved each other a lot of time, and a lot of effort."

"And some death," Archer added unhappily.

The computer let out an audible _click,_ signaling that it had integrated the Xindi information. "The Spheres are all connected by a subspace energy grid," Degra explained, turning his attention back to the task at hand. "Unfortunately, we have very little idea of how they work; our data on the Spheres' interiors is extremely limited."

"Maybe I can help," Archer replied. Walking back to the central control table, he input the commands to pull up an interior view of a Sphere.

"How did you get this?" Degra asked, astonished. "We've never been able to gain access inside one!"

"It was more accident than design," Archer admitted. "One of the first Spheres we came across was damaged; it had a breach in the outer shell. We were able to slip a shuttlepod through."

Degra peered more closely. "These scans are remarkably detailed for a military vessel."

Archer couldn't hold back a chuckle. "The _Enterprise_was _designed _to be a science vessel. I'm looking forward to returning to our original mission."

"If we're successful," Degra said, smiling, "you will soon enough."

…

Before the Xindi departed, Archer had one last task to perform; he hadn't been pushing it off, _per se_, but something had always come up…

"Councilor Jannar," he began formally. "I'd like to apologize for Mr. Tucker's—"

"Don't." The normally sloth-like Xindi cut the captain off. "He made a good point."

"Then are you ready to trust us?" Archer asked, futilely trying to read the alien's face.

"Captain Archer, I am a long, long way from trusting you," Jannar responded. "But our benefactors have been promoting a fallacy. They've been telling us that we have to launch a pre-emptive strike, _now_, or else you humans will destroy us centuries from now. But knowing that, we have centuries to prevent it from happening. It costs us little to give you some time to prove your case, and when the potential cost is genocide…" Jannar shrugged.

Archer smiled. "I'm glad to hear you say that."

Jannar replied with a careful look. "If more humans are like you, Captain, I think our two species have a real chance at resolving any differences peacefully. _Without _any more killing."

"I look forward to that day, Councilor."

…

"Phlox to the captain!"

The physician's voice carried across the intercom with uncommon force, bringing a quick curse to Archer's lips. He knew Phlox, and trusted the doctor; Phlox wouldn't be paging him if it wasn't crucial. Caught in the middle of a corridor, Archer jogged the handful of meters to the nearest comm panel.

"Archer here! Report!" the captain replied with alacrity, falling into well-honed patterns of conciseness.

"Medical emergency! Please report to Commander Tucker's quarters!" The intercom beeped off before Archer had a chance to respond, but the captain was already engaged in a fast trot down the corridor, moving as rapidly as he could through the obstacle course of debris. _It wouldn't do much good to twist an ankle_, Archer knew. _Or brain myself on a duranium beam._ He had no idea what might be wrong, but he was already cringing: the last time he had spoken to Trip, Archer had gone off on a particularly brutal rant, accusing the engineer of unnecessarily exposing Malcolm to nearly-fatal harm, and then relieving Trip of duty. It was no way to treat his closest friend, someone who he had grown to rely on and trust as a confidant.

Trip's quarters were only a deck away, a distance that Archer could cover in under a minute. As he saw the small crowd gathered outside of Trip's doorway, he noted swiftly that he was far from the quickest responder; his mind, snapped into high alertness, quickly catalogued the waiting people, recognizing it as a mixture of a medical team and several MACO members. Phlox and Major Hayes were not present, although, and were presumably inside Trip's room.

A path melted through the waiting crew, a fact which Archer was only peripherally aware of; as he entered the doorway, the world around him screeched to a halt.

Trip's quarters were an unrevised mess of battle damage; dirt and grime still hung in the air, and a solitary light fixture hung, weaving, from an exposed beam in the ceiling. In the infantile light, Archer saw Major Hayes standing to one side, his phase rifle lowered to the ground, barking orders into a hand communicator; he was preparing sickbay for the medical emergency.

Trip's body hit Archer with a blow. It was apparent that his friend wouldn't even last to sickbay; Phlox was straddled across Tucker's chest, two palms planted firmly on Trip's sternum, counting in rhythm as he applied precise pressure to Trip's heart. Tucker's head was obscured; the captain could only see the back of a medic, arched over Trip's face, pumping two-second bursts of air into his friend's starving lungs.

Archer froze in the doorway. _Oh my god, _he thought frantically, his usually-strict crisis management shorting out. Even the captain could only take so much stress, and the sight of his best friend lying there not breathing and nearing death, was more than Archer could take, and he felt himself staggering backwards into the bulkhead. _Oh my god, _he thought again. _This can't be happening. Not Trip_.

The next realization shocked Archer's world into slow-motion. Trip lay sprawled on the deck, his limbs flung uselessly about him; centimeters away from Tucker's right hand was an empty fifth of Skagaran whiskey. Archer watched, helpless, as a booted foot slowly kicked the bottle away, and it rolled gradually into the unlit corners of the room; a medic knelt down by Trip's hand, and fingers flying, attached a biorhythmic pulse to Tucker's arm.

…

At long last, Archer stepped forward from the shadows of sickbay. On the center biobed, Trip lay unmoving, unconscious, stripped down to his underwear with a plethora of biosensors attached to his body. The heart monitor provided a steady, reassuring beep, and for the first time, Archer noticed that Phlox looked worn down to the ground; the doctor had pulled up a chair beside the biobed, and sat there, hunched forward with his face resting in his hands.

"Doctor?" Archer said softly, unsure if he should disturb Phlox.

Phlox lifted his face, and Archer noticed the red, blood-shot eyes and the pallid tone of Phlox's skin. "What do you want?" Phlox snapped angrily. "Haven't you done enough already?"

"Doctor, I—" Archer started to say, but Phlox rose to his feet and cut off the captain.

"I don't want to hear it! I told you that you were pressing the crew too hard! I told you that you needed to let up a bit, and did you listen? Of course not! Because Jonathan Archer always knows what's best!" Phlox snarled with uncharacteristic fierceness.

"Doctor, I—"

"Wasn't it enough that you drove T'Pol into a mental breakdown? That you drove her to seek the solace of drugs? No, of course not!" The question was plainly rhetorical. "Your first officer was down, so why not go after your second officer? And it wasn't enough to torpedo Trip—he had to drag Malcolm down with him!" Phlox gestured to the sleeping form of Lieutenant Reed, occupying another bed in sickbay.

"Doctor—"

"Humans aren't made to endure that kind of stress!" Phlox demanded, shouting across Trip's body. "A _good _commander would realize that! But no—you've been utterly obsessed with this mission from day one!"

"I know," Archer replied quietly, feeling the inundating wave of guilt.

"Have you even cared about the toll?" Phlox went on stringently. "For nine months now—nine months! I've been down here in sickbay, repairing the wreckage of your obsession—the bodies, the wounds, the casualties that come through, every hour of every damned day! And I'm tired of it, Captain! I'm tired of the death, I'm tired of the injuries, I'm tired of the—" he gestured angrily. "The mental breakdowns! But how many more people are you going to send to me? Are you going to send me the entire _crew?_ How about the crews of the alien ships we encounter? You haven't even _bothered _to send their wounded down for treatment!"

"I know, Phlox," Archer said softly, and for the first time the doctor saw the pain etched in Archer's face. "I know."

Phlox let out several deep breaths, allowing his temper to subside. He was not ordinarily prone to anger, and as Phlox watched the captain grapple with his self-guilt, the doctor was reminded that there are no winners in situations such as this; there are only victims.

"Are you okay, Captain?" Phlox asked finally, growing concerned about Archer's self-immolation.

The captain shot a furious burst of air out through his nostrils. "I'm not sure, Doctor," he replied quietly. "I have been avoiding sickbay; I guess I—hell, I don't know." He was hit with a wave of exhaustion. "I just don't know anymore." His closest friends, and three of them—T'Pol, Trip, and Malcolm—were lying flat in sickbay. "What's Trip's condition?" he asked finally.

"He'll live," Phlox answered simply. "I have him in an artificial coma while we clean his body out. Although, Captain, it would help to know—" Phlox looked at Archer curiously. "Is there any history of alcohol abuse in Commander Tucker's family?"

Archer nodded numbly. "His mother," the captain admitted. "Trip told me once about—about growing up in the shadow of it. Earth medicine is finally getting a grip on it, but if the victim refuses to seek help—" he trailed off.

"Does Commander Tucker have a history of his own?" Phlox pressed gingerly.

Archer shrugged silently. "Some," he acknowledged. "Trip was never a—a perpetual drinker, but he'd go off on benders every now and then." He sighed. "It's been a while. I made no drinking a condition of his service on board the _Enterprise._ I can't believe I drove him into this—I should've seen this coming."

"Why wasn't this in his medical records?"

"If Starfleet knew, they never would have trusted him with shipboard duty," Archer answered unsteadily. "There's still a lot of misconceptions. And," he added with a second's thought, "it's not something that Trip's particularly proud of. He didn't really want the demons in his life to be—to be a part of a medical book."

Phlox nodded in understanding. "It took my own people centuries to accept that substance abuse was a medical disease, not a character flaw. We were only able to overcome it once it was brought out into the open. Now that I know, there's a number of treatments I can proscribe…assuming, of course, that Commander Tucker is willing."

Archer smiled faintly. "I might be able to talk him into it. God knows I owe it to him. How soon is he going to wake up?" the captain asked, abruptly shifting topics.

"I'll give him a couple days," Phlox answered, undisturbed by the shift. "There's not much benefit in waking him up before the hangover hits. We have most of the alcohol purged, but—" he pointed at the intravenous tubes. "It'll take a while to rehydrate him. Plus I need to check him out for corollary damage."

"How are your other patients?" Archer asked, finally willing to look around the rest of sickbay.

"They're in various stages of recovery," Phlox answered. "I'll actually release T'Pol to her quarters, as soon as she wakes up from her nap. Malcolm is undergoing cellular regeneration therapy—he'll need further treatment when we get back to Earth." He paused. "Ensign Socorro is getting worse. I expect her to pass in a matter of hours."

Archer hung his head. "I don't envy you your job, Doctor," he said softly. "Nor your commanding officer."

Phlox chuckled. "Oh, you're not so bad, Captain. Things are rather quiet right now—I was going to sit vigil for Socorro. Would you care to join me?"

"I think I will," Archer agreed, and he was suddenly jolted stiff. The familiar siren of the tactical-alert klaxon, while subdued in sickbay, was unmistakable. "Shit," he muttered. "Sorry, Doctor. Duty calls." Archer was on his feet and out the door.

"Of course, Captain," Phlox said softly was he watched Archer run out. "As always."

…

"Report!" Archer ordered as he strode onto the bridge. Around him was a nest of activity; lights flashing, alarms clanging, the siren of the tactical alert shrilly overpowering everything. The captain took in the status with a single glance, proud to see that his junior officers, while moving quickly, appeared to be unflustered.

"We've detected a ship, sir!" Travis told the captain, vacating the center chair. "They've just passed through the cloaking barrier." During their meeting with Degra's ship, the _Enterprise_had stayed within the protective cloak of the nearby Sphere.

"On screen!" Archer ordered. He didn't know who exactly would fulfill the command, but he trusted that one of his bridge officers would; and a moment later, the image appeared on the main viewscreen. It made Archer's blood run cold, in more than one way.

"Reptilians," Travis said softly, recognizing the starship. With its manta ray-like design, a rough diamond trailed by long, sharp tails, and a distinctive tan and purple coloring, the alien vessel was instantly identifiable as belonging to the most aggressive, as well as most paranoid, of the five Xindi sub-species.

Archer turned back as Degra emerged from the lift. The Xindi primate, seeing the image onscreen, stopped in his tracks, astonished. "Did you invite anyone else?" Archer asked softly, but with a sharpened edge.

"No, Captain," Degra replied, not looking away from the viewscreen. "We even masked our warp trail—I don't know _how _they found us!"

"Well, however they did it, they're here," Archer muttered loudly, and he took his seat in the center of the bridge. "Give me tactical options!"

…

Jannar stood his ground in the control room of Degra's ship.

"Where is Degra?" the reptilian commander snarled, his face filling the small viewscreen. "I have orders to destroy the human ship and return Degra _immediately._"

"He's not available right now," Jannar replied, in his best approximation of a fierce retort. "He's involved in sensitive negotiations, and cannot be disturbed."

"With the humans, no doubt?" The reptilian's craggy face seemed to fill the control room. "I assume that the Council authorized these negotiations?" _Weakling warmbloods,_ the commander thought scornfully. _Just when our glorious strike gets near, they become soft, and want to TALK to these humans! No wonder Dolim sent me—only a reptilian has the blood to see the mission through._

"It's no different than the authorization your colleagues had to develop a bioweapon," Jannar answered. "And need I remind you, I'm _on _the Council? These negotiations are taking place under my personal authority, which far supersedes your own."

"You'll find that I don't take orders from arboreal _scum,_" the reptilian commander replied, wrinkling his upper lip in disgust. "Undock from the human vessel immediately, or I'll destroy you along with it."

…

"He intends to seize the human vessel!" Jannar shouted across the comm channel, his bravado vanishing rapidly. It was not a trait his sub-species shared; his instincts told him to run and hide, and he had to fight against the urge to do so. "He'll destroy both our ships if we don't comply!"

"Stand by," Degra replied firmly.

"But, Degra—"

"I said, _stand by_!" Even though Jannar technically outranked Degra, the arboreal took the order with final grace, and the comm channel was momentarily closed.

Archer trotted back to the tactical station, an unspoken question on his lips. "We don't stand a chance against them," Ensign Rahimi answered, dashing Archer's hopes before he could even voice them. "Not in the shape we're in."

_It's time to get creative, _Archer thought, scowling, and he turned back to Degra. "What kind of weapons do you have?" he demanded.

Degra quaked in astonishment. "You expect me to attack a reptilian warship?" he sputtered in answer.

"If we work together," Archer replied, "we might be able to disable them."

"That's not the point, Captain, and you know it," Degra shot back furiously. "I may not agree with them, but that's a long way from killing my brethren!"

"They're charging weapons!" Rahimi announced from tactical. "I could use a firing solution, sir!"

The reptilian warship seemed to grow on the _Enterprise_'s view screen. "Fine, then, _don't _fire on them!" Archer snapped. "But you can at least give us a fair chance! Are you familiar with the design of that ship?"

"I've done some work on them, yes," Degra allowed grudgingly.

"Then you know where they're vulnerable," Travis said excitedly, leaning over the railing from his temporary post at the science station. "You know where to target our weapons!"

"Their ship is heavily armored!" Degra shot back. "Your weapons will barely scratch their surface!"

"At least give us a chance!" Archer retorted, his blood starting to boil. "Right now, it would just be a slaughter! I thought you were done condoning murder!"

"How dare you!" Degra shouted angrily, taking a step towards Archer. "Those reptilians are Xindi! You're asking me to attack _my own people!_"

"This isn't time for a bromide on Xindi unity, Degra!" Archer refused to yield. "There are lives at stake here—not just our own, but everyone back on Earth! If those reptilians destroy us, there will be nothing left to prevent the use of your weapon!"

Degra glared at Archer. "Return me to my own vessel!"

…

Degra's ship detached itself from the larger _Enterprise_ as Degra closed the airlock behind him.

"Proceed to our starboard docking port," the reptilian commander ordered, staring across the comm channel.

"First, I want your assurance that the crew won't be punished," Jannar answered. He glanced over as Degra emerged from a lift. "They had little to do with this."

"You'll all be dealt with as the Council sees fit," the reptilian answered. "Including you, _Councilor _Jannar. And when they render their judgment, you will become mine—we reptilians are quite skilled at dealing with _traitors._"

…

"He's nearly reached the reptilian vessel," Travis reported. The crew watched tensely as Degra's return unfolded on the main viewscreen. "He's coming into position for docking."

As Degra's small ship swung around, assuming a docking vector with the far-larger reptilian vessel, twin spurts of yellow lightning shot out from Degra's vessel before he veered away. Archer watched intently as a series of small explosions ringed the reptilian hull, and the lights of the alien ship flickered off.

"He's knocked out their shield generators!" Travis reported excitedly.

"Rahimi, fire!" Archer ordered an instant later, and the _Enterprise_ ejected two photonic torpedoes, striking the reptilians amidships. Degra's ship, faster and more maneuverable, started dancing in and out, laying its hits with precision.

"Evasive maneuvers!" Archer ordered, and Hutchinson did his best to bring the wounded starship about in a zigzag pattern. "Keep firing! Try to target their weapons!"

The reptilian ship lumbered like a wounded beast, trying to keep the smaller predators at bay, but it had lost its maneuverability; shot after shot landed on it, punishing the larger vessel until it reached the end of its endurance.

"Their weapons are down!" Travis confirmed the sensor scans. "Their main power's offline. They're dead in space, sir!"

"What do you know," Archer murmured. "Degra was spot on. He knew exactly where to hit them."

"Sir! Degra's charging weapons!" Rahimi shouted out with alarm.

"_What?!_" Archer shouted, his head pivoting between the viewscreen and his replacement tactical officer. It only took a second.

Degra's ship lashed out again at the reptilian vessel, striking it with deadly energy beams. The _Enterprise_crew could see the ripples of explosions ripping through the enemy vessel's hull, and Degra landed one last shot, sending the larger craft into a spectacular explosion.

"The reptilian ship has been destroyed," Travis reported, his voice faltering.

Archer took a deep breath, shocked by what he had just seen.

Hoshi cut into the captain's reverie. "Captain, Degra's hailing us." Archer gave a nod, and Hoshi cued the comm channel on-screen.

"They would have contacted the Council and exposed us," Degra said before Archer had a chance to speak. "Believe me, I had no choice." The Xindi-primate seemed to grind his teeth. "I grow tired of death."

…

Phlox's sickbay contingent had grown again in the wake of the battle with the reptilian vessel, adding to the countless, sleepless hours the doctor spent making his rounds. _It is fortunate,_ he thought, stifling a yawn, _that Denobulans don't need daily sleep. Of course, if this keeps up…_He had a team of medics to assist him, and truth be told, they could handle most of the work; but as a dutiful physician, Phlox hesitated to leave sickbay while patients remained.

Now and then, of course, the grim work of repairing battlefield wounds was punctuated by a happy moment, and Phlox had been looking forward to this one with particular eagerness.

"Ah, Commander," he said, approaching T'Pol. She sat on the edge of a biobed, in uniform, waiting to be discharged.

Phlox ran his scanner over the Vulcan. "There's still a good deal of residual trellium metabolites in your system," he said, frowning. The serum treatment was doing its job; the residual levels simply indicated just how much NAPA T'Pol had injected herself with. Phlox drew a breath, and asked the big question. "How long had you been doing this?"

T'Pol shivered, although with the warm temperatures in sickbay, it wasn't because she was cold. "Three months," she admitted softly.

"It's okay, T'Pol," Phlox said, gently taking a hold of T'Pol's arm. "But before I can let you go, I need to know what happened."

T'Pol nodded, recognizing the logic of the doctor's requirement—and a deeply suppressed part of her suspected that she'd feel better talking it. "When I was exposed to the berserk Vulcans aboard the _Seleya, _it affected me in a way I wasn't prepared for," she began, hesitantly at first. It was painful to admit that her mental disciplines had failed.

"You were exposed to an incredible amount of telepathic energy," Phlox said. "It would have overwhelmed even the Vulcan adepts. As I recall, it made you homicidal and paranoid."

"The initial effects were overwhelming," T'Pol continued haltingly. "But in the days following the mission, I felt—_experienced_—a degree of serenity that was unlike anything else. Living on a ship of humans isn't easy, Doctor," she said, looking up at him suddenly.

Phlox smiled. "The onslaught of their emotions is quite taxing, even for a non-telepathic species."

"Yes," T'Pol answered firmly. "It was like—a telepathic flat-lining. It quieted the noise until I sensed nothing at all. It was so…peaceful. Then it began to wear off." She took a deep breath. "I lasted for months, Doctor, before the telepathic pressures became too much. I had to return to the trellium for deliverance."

"But you must have known it was dangerous," Phlox added, without a single note of accusation. "Trellium exposure is toxic to Vulcans."

"I thought, one or twice, in small amounts, it would be safe," T'Pol said gingerly. "And it did the job—I was able to control the telepathic intake. My performance got better, and my interactions with the crew improved."

"When did you realize you were becoming addicted?" Phlox asked softly.

"I guess I knew all along," T'Pol replied, her eyes glazing over in reflection. "When it would wear off, I wanted more, and then more and more. I experimented with different ways of taking the trellium, and devised a way to inject it into my bloodstream. I think I always knew, Doctor, and just couldn't bring myself to admit it."

Phlox nodded in understanding. "For someone who values their self-control as much as you do, admitting an addiction can be a particularly hard thing to do."

"A couple days ago," T'Pol said, seemingly apropos of nothing. "It finally sunk in. The damage to E deck made it impossible to retrieve any trellium from the cargo bay. I began experiencing agitation, anxiety, withdrawal symptoms."

"You found a way to get it, didn't you?" Phlox asked, knowing the answer.

T'Pol nodded. "I was almost killed in the process, and didn't even realize it until later. All I could think about was getting the trellium."

Phlox smiled again. "Do you feel better now, Commander?"

"A little," T'Pol acknowledged.

Phlox picked up a padd, even though he had the prescription memorized. "I'm going to discharge you, Commander, but this doesn't mean you're recovered—far from it, in fact. It's going to take years to regain your mental disciplines, and there's a chance you never will at all." He could see T'Pol swallow hard.

"You're restricted to duty shifts of eight hours a day, split into two four-hour segments," the doctor continued. "I've informed the captain of your limited availability. If you begin to feel overwhelmed, you're obligated to take yourself off duty immediately. When you're not on duty, I want you in your quarters or in sickbay. You also need to stop by sickbay every six hours or so for another injection."

T'Pol's face stayed passive. "I understand, Doctor."

"I'm not going to mislead you, Commander: you have a long and difficult road ahead of you. Recovering from this intense of substance abuse is no picnic. It's going to take time, and it won't be easy, but trust your friends. We care about you, and we're here for you." He paused to allow the words to sink in.

T'Pol nodded in acknowledgment. "If there is nothing more, Doctor, I would like to return to duty." Phlox smiled, and gestured towards the doors with his hand. Sliding off the biobed with a noticeable lack of grace, T'Pol was on her feet and out the doors.

…

"You must speak to the Council," Degra said roughly, punching a fist into the air to punctuate the point. "With the evidence you've shown me, they'll have no choice but to take us seriously."

Archer paced around his ready room. "Even the reptilians?" he asked, skeptically. He rubbed his chin, realizing that he was long overdue for a shave.

"Well, no," Degra admitted. "But if we can sway the aquatics, we'll have the majority on our side. Depac has already committed his support, and Jannar will go along with us."

"I don't know the aquatics that well," Archer admitted. "My one encounter with them—I was unconscious."

"That was necessary," Degra replied gruffly. "They can be somewhat enigmatic, but they're usually open to reason."

"So how do I get to the Council?" Archer asked. He was hesitant about the proposal, but he knew he was committed to seeking a peaceful resolution. If that meant taking this risk, then he would do so. "I don't think they'll just let me walk in."

"Leave that to me, Captain," Degra answered. He handed Archer a data padd. "These are the coordinates of the Council chamber. If you can meet me there, Depac can guarantee you safe admittance to the chamber."

Archer glanced up with alarm. "This is nearly a dozen light years away! It'll take us weeks to get there!"

"Don't worry, Captain, I have a plan." Degra spoke firmly. "There's a shortcut that you can use—a subspace corridor. It's located in a nebula less than half a light-year from here. The data will show your helmsman how to get through it. I'll meet you at the far end in three days."

"Do we _have _three days?" Archer pressed. "Will that be soon enough to stop the weapon? For all I know, it's already on the way to Earth!"

"We've delayed its launch thus far," Degra responded. "I'll do everything I can to delay it further." The Xindi stopped in the doorway. "By the way, Captain, use caution when you enter the nebular. A hostile species is known to prey on ships that approach it."

"Thanks for the warning," Archer said, nodding. He waited a moment, and slowly, deliberately, held out his right hand towards Degra.

Puzzled, Degra returned the gesture, and the captain clasped Degra's hand. "This is a human gesture," Archer explained. "It means we have an accord."

Degra returned a firm grip. "See you in three days, Captain."


End file.
